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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264214">so bite your tongue (and choke yourself to sleep)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/eluvion/pseuds/eluvion'>eluvion</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know but I just used she/her, Jonathan Sims gets a hug in this one, Jonathan Sims is Not Okay, Jonathan Sims needs needs a hug, M/M, Most of this takes place in, Season/Series 04, Sort Of, Spoilers for Season 4, Spoilers up to MAG 167, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, What is Helen's gender??, Whump, and, ish, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:07:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,416</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/eluvion/pseuds/eluvion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Sims could accept that he was no longer human. He found that the scale between <i>human</i> and <i>monster</i> lived on a spectrum, a line made of impossible choices and subtle manipulations, and he was slowly crossing from one side to the other, walking ever closer in the direction of <i>monster</i>. He never knew when he would step over that boundary, cross the shades of in-between that he lived in, so it only made sense to make contingency plans.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Helen | The Distortion &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan Sims &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>301</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so bite your tongue (and choke yourself to sleep)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, TMA fandom. I can’t really say that I’m surprised to be here. I finished this podcast in two and a half weeks and am absolutely obsessed now. I wrote some fic (even though I have 873136 WIPs) and it was really fun. I have many Feelings and Opinions on my child Jonathan Sims, so enjoy &lt;333<br/><br/>Here’s my <a href="https://eluvion.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> if you want to talk/ask questions/do whatever.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The archives were eerie at night. They seemed to close in around Jon, the shadows pressed in the distant corners seeming to watch him, marking every movement, every bit of tension that lingered in his limbs. He had long since gotten used to the feeling of being watched, examined, his mind vivisected by his ever silent god. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was wandering through the hallways of the archives, pacing between rooms aimlessly. He could feel the hunger for a statement gnawing at him, the trickle in the back of his mind telling him about the woman three streets away in a silent, lonely apartment who had had an experience with the Vast. He pushed the thought away before it could settle, tried to bring his wandering thoughts back here, in the quiet, dark archives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ended up just outside the break room, the warm, buttery light seeping from a crack under the door into the dim corridor like water seeping into earth. Jon let himself inside of the room thoughtlessly, intending to go in and grab a cup of tea. He didn’t expect anyone to be there, least of all Basira. He had thought that she would be the one who would sleep at a reasonable time, but apparently not. A faint voice in the back of his mind told Jon that it was currently 3:37 am. He ignored it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira was sitting at one of the tables, her legs curled up under her. She was typing on a laptop (Jon Knew that she was doing research for the statement that he had recorded two days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes ago). She had a cup of tea beside her, but it looked long since cooled. The scent of it clung in the air, sharp peppermint cutting through the empty space. She looked up from the laptop as he stepped in, and Jon could feel her eyes tracking his movements. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He met her gaze and nodded in greeting. Basira smiled back, her lips tight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon turned towards the kettle and began to make himself some tea. The silence that sat between them seemed tense, like a violin string pulled too tight, tuned to a note just too sharp. It almost felt discordant, as if the space between them would snap if left uninterrupted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jon didn’t want to be the one that broke the silence. So he let it gain weight around them, let it thicken until Basira broke it for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice was clear, and it almost seemed to resonate in the small space, fracturing the quiet into pieces. “How long have you been recording?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a few hours,” he said, but the roughness of his voice clearly showed just how long “a few hours” was (it was fourteen hours and thirty-seven minutes, punctuated by seven ten-minute breaks). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let the tea steep beside him, and, breathing in the steam, he could feel his shoulders relax a little. Just for the sake of conversation, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing something</span>
  </em>
  <span> because it felt like his hands always shook when he wasn’t moving or taking statements or doing anything, Jon motioned to the teabags and asked, “Want a cup?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira took a sip from her cold tea and made a face. “Sure.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fell back into silence, but this time it felt more comfortable. Less discordant. A question tickled the back of his mind, but he ignored it. It always sat there, hiding under every layer of Knowing, every piece of what he Saw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know if it was the late, sleepless night or his hunger for a statement, but the question slipped out nonetheless. “Basira,” he started, handing her the cup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took it and set it beside her laptop. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon leaned against the wall behind him, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “If I— If I go wrong, completely wrong, will you kill me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t mean to compel (yes he did), but it came out that way anyway. The monster part of him wanted to Know things, but the steadily dwindling human part of him needed to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighed. Jon closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cool drywall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon,” Basira said, her voice tired. She sounded as if she was going to say something, argue in some way, but maybe that was just Jon’s imagination. She paused for a second before continuing. “Yes. I’ll… if it comes to that, I will do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded, but his thoughts were distant. “I— Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem. Do you think that’ll happen soon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon said, “I don’t know. I just want to be… prepared. Have a contingency plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Basira said, “I suppose you have one now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered if she actually would. No, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>she would. Basira would do it if he hurt too many people. It wasn’t a question of </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but rather one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how.</span>
  </em>
  <span> His thoughts turned to gunshots, the pistol that sat on Basira’s leg, the magazines held by her belt. Would he die like Gertrude had—three shots to the chest, bleeding out onto everything he tried to end? Or maybe it would be a knife to the throat, like Daisy had done so long ago. He could never know </span>
  <em>
    <span>where </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because he couldn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>when </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>where </span>
  </em>
  <span>he would turn wrong, turn bad. Some could argue that he already had turned bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t trust Basira’s judgment. Well, no, it wasn’t her judgment that he doubted. It was her ability. Jon had escaped death so many times, even as he strode into its open arms, that he didn’t know if enlisting one person to kill him if he became a full monster was good enough. He needed a backup plan. A contingency plan for his contingency plan. In fact, he would prefer a few backups, just in case. It would be easy enough to ask the others, he supposed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, of course, for Martin. Jon wondered, distantly, if he could even hang onto Martin long enough to ask. He was enraptured in whatever his plan was, and Martin would… Well, at this point, Jon had no idea what Martin’s reaction to a question about his death would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The point was that he needed another plan. He needed a backup option just in case anything happened to Basira. And he knew exactly who to ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Melanie didn’t scream him out of the room when Jon walked into her office, which was a good sign. It’s a small space, with shelves and cutlery and papers strewn about in a disorganized fashion. Jon knocked, partly out of politeness and partly out of fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie had seemed to be doing better since he took the bullet out of her leg, but she clearly hadn’t wanted to talk to him. He could still feel the wound in his shoulder, but it had healed far too quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered, dimly, if she would do it with that same knife, pierce the skin and flesh and bone just a few centimeters to the right. Maybe she would rip his throat open, let the blood flow freely until he choked on his own blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in.” Melanie sounded almost bored, but, then again, research really wasn’t the most engaging activity, especially if you actively hated the place that you were researching for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon stepped in carefully, already noting the tension that sprung up like weeds in the springtime. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie sighed, but it sounded less like a sigh and more of a breath of frustration. “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just wanted you to promise something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice was reproachful. “Jon, I’m not promising anything—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cut her off before she could assume anything more. “Nothing that will really link you here. If you’re not in the Institute anymore by the time anything happens, the promise will be void.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused, then said, “Depends on the promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon laughed to himself, quiet and dry. “If I completely turn, I want you to kill me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie stared at him for a beat. “Why are you asking </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would think that you would want to do it the most,” he said. “But… I am not just asking you. I’m asking everyone in the Archival staff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even Martin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon drew in a breath, pushing away the thought of asking him. “Yes. Even Martin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie let out a strained laugh. “Cruel of you. But I suppose I really shouldn’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>surprised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon didn’t react. Instead, he shifted his weight and said, “Just promise me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ran a hand through her hair, let the thick blue-black strands catch in-between her fingers. She didn’t meet his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice sounded strangely hollow, as if something had been carved out with a knife. “Fine, alright? Fine. If you go really and truly wrong, I promise I’ll do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let out a breath of relief. He hadn’t realized that he was going to ask everyone to until he had told her. But it was the most logical thing to do, wasn’t it? He wasn’t actively suicidal, and he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>afraid </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do it himself. But he needed to be sure that he wouldn’t go too far. He needed to plan for the future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Melanie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever,” she said. “Just— if I ever get out of here, don’t go looking for me if you get suicidal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried for a smile, but it felt wrong on his lips. “Yes, I will… I’ll let myself out now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he left the room, he put his face in his hands. Another promise. It was good, in a way, but even this plan could fail, couldn’t it? He needed to get more people. He decided, in the end, to leave Martin for last. Jon just wasn’t ready to ask him to do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would have to be, though. Someday, he would ask Martin. Someday, someday. Whenever he built up the courage to ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Statement ends.” Jon placed the report back on his desk, and the tape stopped itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t bother to add any supplements. It was a pretty open and shut case, just another manifestation of the Spiral that he had heard a thousand times before. The tape recorders seemed to deem what was really useful these days; he rarely started or stopped one by his own accord.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed. Ran his hands through his wiry hair. It was shorter now, but after getting out of the hospital, he had let it grow out until it was chin-length. He could see the streaks of grey that ran through it, snaking through the thick brown. This job aged everyone so </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span>, until they could be twenty or thirty or fourty and no one could tell the difference. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daisy sat on the other chair by the side of the wall, focused on something in her hands. Jon looked at it more closely. A gun. Of course. She always had two guns strapped on either side of her waist, and Jon Knew the location of her four knives, bag of poison pills, and secret gun in her boot. He wondered which one she would use on him. Maybe she would use her bare hands, choke him until his heart stopped beating. No, it was more likely that she were to kill him, she would tear him apart. Keep him from getting up again. Good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daisy,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked up calmly, her eyes sharp. Everything about her was sharp. Maybe all of that would finally kill him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He asked, “Will you kill me if I completely turn?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stared at him for a moment, and Jon could see some calculation in her eyes. Something shifted in her gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if you do the same for me,” Daisy said, her eyes locked on his. There was a quiet intensity there, a calm front to her storm hiding inside of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know if we would be able to kill her if she turned, but Jon supposed it was only fair. He nodded. “Deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She seemed to study him for another moment. He knew how he looked. He hadn’t slept in days, and hadn’t eaten in… well, even he didn’t know that one. But he hadn’t had a fresh statement, something new and sustainable in weeks (two weeks, four days twelve hours, and thirty-seven minutes, to be exact). He could see the same sort of hunger in Daisy. The edges of it both rubbed at them, taking pieces off like leaves falling in the autumn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like hell, Sims,” she said, her voice staying carefully neutral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He began to take another statement from the pile. Jon could distinctly feel the grains, the fibres of the paper beneath his fingertips (the paper was recycled at a plant fourteen miles away). It seemed that every sensation was too much when he didn’t have enough to eat, like the tics of the clock four hallways away and the wood of the chair underneath him was just another </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> playing at the back of his mind until it all overtook him. The written statements helped, a little, but he imagined it helping in the same way Hunting for a pen might help Daisy. Like a single sip of water in the desert.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speak for yourself,” Jon said, a wry twist to his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t as if </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>looked any better. Her blonde hair was cut close to her head, uneven stands mussed. Her eyes were somehow distant and sharp at the same time, and Jon could imagine clarity taking them as the Hunt flowed into her. Would she Hunt for him if he became a monster? (She would.) So then, when would she Hunt him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all led back to that question, didn’t it? When would he turn? When would he cross the shades of grey and step into the role he was always meant to play? When would his death be confirmed?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if he never did die? What if, when his throat was slit and gunshots were fired into his body, what if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>die? What if his body healed, and he stood again, and the death that was supposed to happen would just be pain that he healed from? He was scared to do it himself. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do it himself. He was too afraid to sever the connection to the world, too afraid to move on to another place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moved to stand, but in two strides, Daisy was face-to-face with him. She wrapped her arms around Jon, and he stiffened. The warmth of it was strange, and it felt as if he were reading a book from his childhood that he had once loved, scouring the pages for the feelings that had enraptured him so long ago. Jesus, he was feeling nostalgia because of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hug</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He supposed that only spoke to how long it had been since he was touched in comfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He began to relax into it, and he wrapped an arm around Daisy’s waist. She held on for a moment, and it felt awkward, but Jon let himself remember the feeling of her body heat, the feeling that someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>cared</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both stepped back, and he began to leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sims,” Daisy said again. There seemed to be something caught in her voice, then. “Try not to make me have to kill you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled dryly. “Only if you do the same for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckled. “Deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let himself out of his office and began his walk for a new statement. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One more,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One more contingency plan.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t expect Helen to have heard about his plans. Of course, he probably should have assumed that she would find out, what with her doors being seemingly everywhere these days. Still, when she walked out of a door that didn’t exist and into his office, he was a bit surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard you were asking people to kill you,” she said, her voice warped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It always strayed a little when she spoke to him, as if it wandered a bit. It made a certain type of sense, Jon supposed. As if the sound had traveled into the air through the filter of the spiral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a precaution,” Jon said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughed, and the sound of it still sounded </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not as wrong as it had sounded when she was Micheal, but it still sounded </span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in a way. “I am not going to try to convince you to stop, Archivist. I only wish to know why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched her, marking each movement with scrutiny. “Why aren’t you going to stop me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen laughed again. “If you ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> truly turn, </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>will not be able to kill you. Even the Huntress. Their promises are useless, so why are you demanding them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They could, potentially. Maybe they could kill him. Maybe their weapons would tear into him and break him the way they were supposed to. It was a shot in the dark, but it was one he was willing to take.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen must have seen some of that in his eyes, because she frowned at him. Her tone was almost accusatory. “You think that they might have a chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Elias killed Gertrude,” Jon said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen scoffed. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Elias</span>
  </em>
  <span> is also an avatar of the Eye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t use any of the Eye’s powers to kill her. He shot her, and she died. Which means that if I were to be shot, I would die as well,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew the thought had embedded itself into his mind before. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What if he couldn’t be killed?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter, in the end. Gertrude had been murdered, which meant he could be murdered as well. Three shots. It took three shots for Gertrude to die. How many would it take him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled at him, something sharp in her eyes. “I am simply saying, Archivist, that you have survived death before. By the time you step into your role, you will hold even more power than you already have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The unspoken words hung in the air between them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You will be more of a monster than you already are.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luckily for you,” he said, his words now taking a sharper edge, “my plans are none of your business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckled. “Oh, but they are. I will keep a close eye on you, Archivist. If you ever do embrace your powers, I will trust that you will knock on my door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen stepped back inside of her door, but her laughter hung in the air the way it always did.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t end up asking Martin until much, much later. The cabin they found themselves in was overrun with weeds and half-demolished, but it was somewhere they could hide. It was a place they could run to and stay in, and Jon valued that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They spent most of the first days getting it ready, fixing the spots that needed fixing, rebuilding anything that needed to be rebuilt. They loved and laughed, and they kissed quite a few times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, they had their breakdowns as well. Nightmares wracked both of their nights, and Jon had broken down into disorganised sobs at least three times in the last two days. Martin, in turn, had still felt the pull of the Lonely, and he had curled up against Jon, shaking for the first few nights. They pulled each other up and out of the holes they found themselves in, and Jon could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>the love in his chest when he thought of Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Love was a human feeling. Jon held onto that sliver of humanity as tightly as he could, pulled it close and memorized and rememorized what it felt like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was during a breakdown that he finally asked Martin. He had been flipping through the statements, searching for another one, something to numb the dull headache settling in his mind. But at some point between checking statements and thinking about his humanity, ever dwindling, Jon sat down, the statements abandoned around him. He walked the familiar path in his mind, the path of </span>
  <em>
    <span>who will kill me when I turn?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira could, but she was far away, trying to keep the Institute afloat. Daisy had disappeared somewhere, Hunting (he still hadn’t made good on his promise to her). Melanie was gone from the Institute, and he couldn’t ask her to kill him, not now. Which left… which left the one person he hadn’t asked yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon! I’m back!” he heard Martin call from the front door. He paused when Jon didn’t answer. “Jon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m in here,” he said back, still staring at the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was sitting on the ground, head tucked between his legs, thinking about how he would have to ask Martin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How do you ask the person you love to kill you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon almost didn’t hear Martin as he stepped into the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you— What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rushed over, concerned. Jon raised his head and stared at Martin, studying him. Jon wished he could memorize every line of Martin’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Jon said. “I was just thinking about…” He trailed off and laughed to himself, but it felt too sharp, as if the sound were constructed from broken glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin quickly moved the statements to make room for himself. “About what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How do you put it into words? Of course, he could just spit it out, the truth, plain and simple, the fact that he was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>afraid</span>
  </em>
  <span> to turn into something he hated, and the question. The promise that he wanted, </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Martin to keep because there was no one else who could keep it. But it was so hard to say it like that. It was so hard to tell the clean words, and it felt too </span>
  <em>
    <span>real. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The words would never come out like that. They could not get out simply, and Jon’s thoughts were far from simple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They left, instead, after a dry laugh. “I don’t know. My humanity? It feels like—like the parts that make me </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span> are just slipping through my fingers like </span>
  <em>
    <span>sand </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop it.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something like a sob curled in his throat, and it mixed with the manic laugh that bubbled out. Martin looked horrified (he would be right in that). Jon ducked his head, staring at the ground again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon,” Martin said, his voice soft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon whispered, “What will happen if I turn? Completely, utterly turn? When every </span>
  <em>
    <span>inch</span>
  </em>
  <span> of my humanity is </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I’m just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>monster</span>
  </em>
  <span> and now, now all my contingency plans are gone too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breaths were coming out in ragged gasps, and now tears were coming out in small streams, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was a mess. But he couldn’t focus on calming down, he couldn’t focus on </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> except his plans, turned to dust and ash, each potential candidate turned to something or another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin reached for his right hand, the one left unburned and unscathed, and took it. It was warm, and something about it felt safe, like his careful fingers could keep each thought from finding a place to settle in Jon’s mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon still wasn’t looking at him. He couldn’t see whatever expression Martin had on his face, and some part of him didn’t want to see it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon,” Martin repeated. “What contingency plans?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drew in a breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spit it out, Jon</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “If I—” He broke off, then started again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just tell him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I made plans. With the others. For if I turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin took a sharp breath. “You— you were planning—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon flexed his scarred hand, feeling the familiar stretch of scar tissue. “My death, yes. I needed—I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be prepared.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin took one of his hands from Jon’s and wrapped it under his chin, the warmth seeming to reach from Martin’s hand to a strange pang in Jon’s chest. He was looking into Martin’s eyes then, and a strange softness settled in them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The realization seemed to dawn on Martin at that moment. “And you were going to ask me… You were going to ask me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel the prickling sensation at the back of his eyes, the heat of oncoming tears. “If I turn, then it wouldn’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> anymore. It would be the Eye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Martin said, and he pulled Jon close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about that, about someone, about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Martin</span>
  </em>
  <span> deciding to pull him closer, broke the dam. Tears began to fall, and he couldn’t control it, couldn’t control his hitching breaths or the way his body shook against Martin’s. It felt like he was crying four years worth of tears. He supposed that he was, technically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin rubbed circles on his back with one hand, the other having moved from Jon’s cheek to the back of his head, massaging his scalp and tangling in his hair. His face was buried in Martin’s shirt, the soft fabric soaking his tears. Jon felt like he was breaking apart, as if all the pressure, from the Eye, from himself, from the whole goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>world</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was falling apart, but Martin was holding him together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time seemed to slow for a moment, pour like viscous honey, and Jon could feel his shaking slow, his breaths grow longer, his tears begin to drip instead of flow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey,” Martin whispered in Jon’s ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured into Martin’s chest. “I didn’t mean to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, it’s fine. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposed it was, technically, good. It was healthy to cry, and it was healthy to talk, but that didn’t mean that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But,” Martin said, “even if you turn, I’m not going to kill you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jon, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to kill you. You didn’t give up on me when I was in the Lonely, so if you do turn—which we don’t even know if you will—I will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> give up on you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was strange, the realization that someone had faith in him, that someone wouldn’t give up on him. Something twinged inside of him, and a certain heat settled in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” Jon said, letting himself be held.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too,” Martin said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he turned the world to hell, no one killed him. Under the eye of the Ceaseless Watcher, all promises, all vows, all </span>
  <em>
    <span>contingency plans</span>
  </em>
  <span> were void. No one killed him, but Martin held him close, and, just for him, Jonathan Sims held onto his humanity. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And then they saved the world and everyone lived and nothing bad ever happened again<br/><br/>Ok thanks for reading &lt;3333 <a href="https://eluvion.tumblr.com/">Yell at me about TMA</a>! I really need friends in this fandom :))<br/><br/>Edit (3/27/2021): I’m so sorry if you read this post finale oh my god</p></blockquote></div></div>
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